


Hold Me Close Enough to Break My Heart

by Muccamukk



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: (attempted), Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant in the Worst Possible Ways, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Gloom, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e06 Bastogne, Episode: s01e07 The Breaking Point, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mental Health Issues, More Bitter Than Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: There wasn't a goddamn thing Buck could ask of Bill that he wouldn't do right then, but he didn't know how to tell him that.
Relationships: Buck Compton/Bill Guarnere
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Loose Lips Sink Ships Prompt Meme





	Hold Me Close Enough to Break My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a slight AU that moves the "Crazy Joe" conversation between Bill and Babe from 2 January forward to the morning of 24 December, following Buck's Visigoth speech. Contains basically canon-typical everything for the Bastogne era of canon, including canon events as they occur, though I stop just shy of the start of Breaking Point. 
> 
> Written for the Loose Lips Sink Ships prompt: "Bill sees Buck slipping in Bastogne and tries to give him a reason to hang on."
> 
> Thank you to Thrilling Detective Tales for beta reading this!

"That's why they called him 'Crazy Joe!'" Bill's own words echoed through his mind for the rest of the day, along with the image of Joe McCloskey on the street corner, his ratty blanket pulled around him, staring at everyone who passed like he could see into their souls. The braver boys had thrown snowballs or even rocks at him sometimes, but Pa'd told Bill that he'd get the tanning of his life if he ever tried it. Mr. McCloskey had served his country in '18, Pa'd said, and no son of his would disrespect that. "No matter how goddamn nuts he is now," Pa'd muttered, which Bill suspected he hadn't been meant to hear.

Now, Bill kept looking sideways at Buck, trying to see if he had that same dead-eyed focus, like a fishhead on a slab. He went back and forth: one moment thinking he saw a flicker of something _off_ in Buck's looks, and the other telling himself that Babe had put it in his head, and Bill was only seeing what he was looking for. Even if Buck was a little jumpier than usual, he had every right to be. It didn't mean he couldn't handle leading the platoon. Babe wasn't even in second. He just liked palling around with Bill. What did he know about what Buck was like?

"Buck Compton's fine," Bill muttered. Later, after by some miracle they'd pushed back the Christmas Eve assault on their lines, and Buck had led his platoon with the same good-sense and bravery he always had, Bill settled into his hole for the night in the easy confidence of having won an argument.

To underline Bill's conclusion, Buck dropped down next to him, and bumped his shoulder against Bill's in greeting. "Everyone holding up?" Buck asked, and Bill rattled off the platoon's casualties without really having to think about it. Third platoon had taken the worst of it for once. Second had two hit, none dead.

"Goddammit," Buck murmured when he heard about Smokey Gordon, but everyone had liked Gordon.

No, instead of being a staring, shaking mess, Buck was his usually solid self. He generated heat like a baker's oven. Bill flipped the edge of his blanket out so that they could bundle up together, and Bill could leech off Buck's warmth.

"How you doing, Lieutenant?" Bill found himself asking, not sure where the words came from.

Bill hadn't thought that a man could grow so still he stopped shivering, but Buck did. For the space it took to draw in a breath, Buck's whole body just stopped, like he'd turned to stone. Then Buck forced a laugh, and asked, "What? How am I doing? Why?"

There was an edge of fear in his voice that Bill didn't like at all.

"No reason, no reason," Bill said in his best placating an irrational officer tone. "Just asking."

"I'm fine," Buck said, which was a lie, but one they all told in this hell hole. "Just fucking dandy."

"Yeah, me too," Bill said, and snuggled down closer to Buck. Good Christ, the man was warm.

Later that night, as the Germans sang carols and did not propose a twenty-four hour truce or play soccer in No Man's Land, Buck gave Bill the picture of him and his girl, and Bill started to wonder if he should feel better about that or not. Getting one of those letters would be enough to put any man off his game, and if Buck had been sitting on his since that mail call they'd gotten right before they left for this shit show, well, there it was.

When they got off the line, Bill would take Buck out to that whore house in Rheims and make sure he forgot all about that little miss back in the States. Hell, Bill'd even foot the tab for two girls at once.

Bill woke up Christmas morning to find that he'd curled up around himself trying to hold onto every last bit of warmth, and Buck had put his arms around Bill to hold him close to his chest. Buck's heart was beating too fast for him to be sleeping, but he wasn't moving an inch, just sitting there holding Bill tight against him, like he was sheltering Bill's body with his own during an airstrike. Except there hadn't been an airstrike in a good six hours, and Bill didn't need protecting even when there was one.

"Jesus Christ. Lemme up, I gotta piss," Bill muttered.

Buck started like Bill had jabbed him in the side with a penknife. He shoved Bill out of his lap, and smacked the back of his helmet for good measure. "Get outta here."

Bill crawled out of the hole and rose to a crouch before glancing back down at Buck, who'd pulled the blanket around himself again. His pale skin had two spots of colour on the cheeks, and his lips pinched into a thin line. Bill thought he looked okay, given where they were. He'd find a tree, then go check on the boys.

"Hey," Buck said, and didn't add anything until Bill turned right around to look at him. "Merry Christmas."

"You too, Buck," Bill replied, and narrowed his eyes. Was Buck staring at him? Bill shook his head and walked back from the line.

His dick was still killing him when he pissed, almost as bad as taking it out in the cold long enough to get the job done. Maybe taking Buck out whoring wouldn't be doing him such a favour.

The boys were doing okay, at least. There'd been some shells in the night, and the rumble of an air strike on the town itself, but again second platoon had been blessed. Bill had used to check the other platoons too, before he'd had more trouble than he could keep track of with just his own, even with Joe and Don helping him.

He should still look in on Babe, though, at least to wish him Merry Christmas. The poor kid'd been shook up ever since his foxhole buddy had gotten it, and Bill'd been trying to keep him a little closer, maybe try get him moved to second platoon. If he could pry him out of Martin's greedy hands.

Bill got back to his foxhole expecting Buck to be up and organising shifts to hit the chow line, checking the boys, making them all promise not do do anything stupid. Instead he was standing on the edge, staring out towards the line. Bill could only see the back of his helmet, but didn't like the frozen stillness of Buck's stance.

"What's the word?" Bill asked, and again Buck started and turned sharply. His ice blue eyes were red rimmed, like he'd been crying, but he couldn't have had time.

"Welsh"—Buck cleared his throat and wiped his mouth, started again—"Welshy got hit."

"Fuck," Bill muttered. "How bad?" Welsh was a nut who liked the bottle too much, but he was Bill's kind of officer, and his spot as E Company's XO had been the one hope against fucking Dike sending them all into a bog and leaving them there.

"Don't know yet." Buck tried to smile and ended up looking like a death mask. "Would you believe the goddamned idiot started a fire?"

Bill would believe just about anything just then, and it did sound like something Harry Welsh would do, but he said, "No shit."

"If you boys _ever_..." Buck started, but Bill waved him off.

"Yeah, yeah, start a fire and you'll kill us," he said. He added it to singing too loudly, standing up in an OP, and not wearing gloves if they had them. Though Buck had given his damn gloves to some dumb shit replacement who didn't look like he was old enough to be in high school, let alone the parainfantry. Bill clapped Buck on the arm, fingers catching as he tugged him forward a little. "Come on. Let's go make sure the rest of the boys got the word."

"Right," Buck said, and started moving.

"Once he was up and moving around," Bill had told Babe, but he wasn't sure he believed that any more either.

Bill made sure to share Buck's foxhole the following night as well. They'd all spent the day trying not to think of their families eating Christmas dinner back home, or even of the Red Cross packages they'd have gotten if they'd been in quarters like they were supposed to be. The Luftwaffe had taken over the sky, and no more supplies had come, though the dog fighting was a little like fireworks. When Bill had been a kid, and they'd had money for eggs, Ma'd made pancakes on Christmas morning. This year the company hadn't gotten breakfast, and it'd been beans again for dinner.

No one whined about being hungry, but the pinched looks and grim silence said it all.

At least Buck was still warm, one of the great givens of the war: Dick Winters shaving every morning, the US Army sending them somewhere fucking stupid in shitty weather, and Buck Compton being the best person to share a foxhole with in the cold. He put his arm around Bill and pulled him close, and Bill considered asking if Buck was getting fresh with him, but decided that'd just make him stop, and Bill didn't want that.

It occurred to him, as Buck curled up next to Bill and slept, that Buck took the same kind of comfort in having someone safe and familiar. If Bill could just keep him close, maybe they'd both get through this okay.

Fourth Armoured broke through the next day, establishing shitty supply lines on one of the seven roads, and getting the wounded out.

"We'll be relieved," Buck said, but quietly and just to Bill, as they watch the last ambulance jeep head to the field hospital. "Go back to Mourmelon, put our feet up, catch a picture."

"Yeah," Bill told him, "that sounds swell."

He'd just been thinking that they hadn't sent _enough_ of their wounded back, with all these sorry sons of bitches limping along the line like Joy Toye with his trench foot—and no sense telling that Irish bastard anything, certainly not, "get the fuck off the line, you stupid Mick!"—and at the same time if second platoon lost any more men, then there wouldn't be enough bodies to functionally defend the few who remained.

Bill had never wished he'd been the one making the call of who went and who stayed, not until he saw that Buck was the one who got stuck with it. Each man Buck had to look up and down, listen to the doc, and decide if they shipped out or went right back in that foxhole to hold the line. It should have been Dike, but Dike didn't give a shit. It should have been Welsh, but he'd been evacuated. It should have been Winters, but he had too much on his hands already. It fell back on the platoon leaders, the ones who were closest to the men, to make the call of who stayed and who lived.

It was like putting a butcher's hook into Buck's stomach and tearing his guts out real slow.

"Yeah," Bill said, but just as soft as Buck, so no one could hear him and hope, "we'll be pulled off for sure. You just wait."

The next day, replacements started pouring in, and orders to hold the ground they'd kept and take back the rest. First Battalion had gotten the shit kicked out of it trying to hold Foy the week before, and now it was up to Second Battalion to get the shit kicked out of it taking it back.

Buck looked as green as the recruits when he heard, but then he tilted his head back and bared his teeth like a cornered wolf, like he was challenging the whole world to come at him, like he had nothing left to lose.

In that moment, he looked _exactly_ like Crazy Joe McCloskey.

"Will you believe these replacements?" Bill said, like he hadn't seen a damn thing. "Some of them's so new they don't know which end of their M1s the bullet comes outta."

"Yeah." Buck said, dragging his attention back. "Yeah. We better get a move on whipping them into shape, huh, Bill?"

"Gonna be a lotta work," Bill told him, not having to fake his dismay.

"We'll get it done, you and me," Buck said, and gave Bill another painted-on smile. Christ, Bill was getting sick of that expression.

Later, Bill took a moment to find Johnny Martin and pull him aside. He had the same set of worries, except the Looey they'd brought into replace Peacock was an all right sort of guy, another Pennsylvania bum.

"Think you could scrounge something for me?" Bill asked.

Johnny wrinkled his nose. "Not likely," he grumbled. "You know how it's been."

"Just looking for a pair of gloves, biggest paws you can find."

"Not for you," Johnny said, glancing down at Bill's gloved hands. He was already chewing his lip, thinking over his networks of contraband.

"Nah, the lieutenant," Bill told him. "Stupid bastard give his away."

"See what I can do, pal." Bill clapped Johnny on the shoulder, and they both went back to their platoons, each trying not to think that each time they met could be the last, and if it was the last thing they'd have said would have been about fucking gloves. But Johnny knew how much he meant to Bill. He had to.

The replacements were jumpy fucks, every damn one of them. Bill was glad the squirrels had all been either eaten or chased out of the woods by all the shooting, because if any of the greenhorns saw one, they'd probably jump right out of their damn skins and shoot themselves in the foot while doing it.

Bill was walking the line until nearly midnight, damn near kissing them all goodnight as he went. Not that vets had ever been much help with replacements; they seemed even less inclined to give a shit about them now. They were angry they were still stuck here, and blamed the new guys for making that possible, and for getting them killed, and for dying. Bill would have sympathised, if he'd had the time.

Bill yawned and trooped back towards his foxhole. It was starting to snow more heavily, and they'd all be losing each other in a pathless wilderness if it kept up. Bill would have to see about setting up ropes of some kind. Maybe blazing the trees. He'd talk to Lipton about it tomorrow, after Bill had caught some sack time.

"Where've you been?"

Buck's demand caught Bill unawares, making him start and his hand twitch for his M1. Buck was standing between the foxhole and the line, half turned away from Bill as though he expected him to be coming in from one of the OPs.

"Just tucking the boys in," Bill told him, holding his hands up. "You know they can't sleep if I ain't given them a little bedtime story."

Months ago, before Holland, Buck would have laughed and told Bill he'd make a good mother, but now he frowned and snapped, "Always tell me where you're going."

Bill thought he had. He tried to think back, but cold and hunger made it harder than it should be. He thought he had told Buck where he was. "Won't happen again, Lieutenant."

"Bill, you have to always tell me where you're going," Buck insisted, as if he hadn't heard Bill. He reached out and held on tight to Bill's shoulder. His skin was blotched red and white from the cold, cracked across his knuckles.

"I will, Buck," Bill said, softer now. He put his hand over Buck's, feeling it's deathly cold even through his glove, and squeezed down. "I won't go nowhere without telling you, all right?"

Bill was holding Buck's gaze, and saw the moment he seemed to notice Bill was actually really there. It was a little shift: the line of Buck's jaw firming up, his eyes narrowing just a little. The corner of his mouth turned up, and it was so close to a real smile that Bill's chest ached.

"Much as I hate to admit it," Buck said, "I need your crazy ass here on the line, so don't you go doing something stupid again."

Bill smiled back and patted Buck's hand before letting his own drop. "Yeah, yeah," he said, "nothing stupid."

They settled into their foxhole, Bill giving Buck a brief version of how the boys were doing, so caught up in trying to censor what he thought Buck could handle that he didn't pay much mind to the routine of settling in for a few hours sleep. Buck had arranged both their blankets so that they double wrapped the two of them together, like he usually did. He didn't usually leave his arm around Bill's shoulders, hadn't since that morning Bill had woken curled up in Buck's arms, but Bill had to admit it was nice. Buck's arm was strong and warm around him, and it felt good to be held, good to feel something other than cold and alone.

Until Bill realised that Buck wasn't just holding him for the sake of warmth or company, he was holding Bill wrapped in place so that he couldn't leave. The thought drifted in that if Buck could do that to every single one of his men—wrap him in a blanket and hold onto him—he would, Bill was just the one he trusted to get close.

Well, it was still warm, and still felt good to be held, so Bill put his head against Buck's shoulder and decided he'd deal with it in the morning.

In the morning, the Luftwaffe caught a break in the weather and bombed the hell out of their line. A couple P-47s got up fast enough to harry them out, but by the time they crawled out of their foxholes, Joe Toye had been hit.

It wasn't anything, really, he said.

"You can pull it out, and patch me up, right, doc?" he asked Spina, who gave him the thin-lipped glare of a man who didn't have time for this.

"You're going back to the aid station for stitches," Spina said, and glanced up at Buck to make sure he backed him up.

Buck started, then nodded sharply. "Damn right he is."

"You can come back later, once you're patched up," Bill added, and didn't know if he hoped Joe would or he wouldn't. A man like Joe Toye wouldn't take a scratch like that as a ticket home, even if they let him, but for now he was safe, out of fire, out of the cold. But Bill was going to need Joe to run the platoon. He needed him here, now, already. Jesus, Bill was planning for what to do if they lost Buck.

Maybe Joe could read the anxiety in Bill's face, because he clapped Bill on the shoulder with his good hand, and said, "Hey, don't kill all them Germans before I get back, you hear?"

"Try not to," Bill muttered, and Joe limped off towards the aid station.

"Goddammit," Buck muttered, and for that moment he sounded like Sobel.

Bill shivered, and went back to check the rest of the boys. Dike had said he wanted combat patrols that afternoon, but he hadn't said who or how many, or even when or where. Bill needed to find a dozen men in good enough shape to go out, with enough experience not to shoot their buddies in a panic.

Buck stayed standing where he was for a long time.

It started to snow that night, drifts seeming to rise out of the ground. It kept the Luftwaffe off of them, but goddamn it was cold. They had a tarp over their hole to keep the snow off, but it kept blowing in under the edges and sticking to the back of Bill's neck. No matter how he shifted his scarf or his helmet, the snow still found him. Buck had pulled him close again, in a way it was feeling weirdly normal.

"You figure Joe's the lucky one?" Buck asked.

Bill frowned. Buck was the last man to talk about a lucky wound usually. Like Bill, he'd come back to the line as soon as he could bust out of the hospital. "Would if I didn't know he'd be right the fuck back here."

And if they both didn't didn't know that not having any idea what was happening to the fellows on the line, that being stuck in an aid station waiting to see who came in next and listening to the screams of the dying, had to be tearing Joe up inside.

"Don't you get hurt too," Buck told him, the usual litany, but the fierceness in his voice was new. His fist balled in Bill's jacket, and he hauled him closer, until Bill was almost in his lap. Buck was a big man, and he could move an unresisting Bill around like a rag doll if he wanted, but it wasn't his strength that made Bill shiver.

"Hey," Bill said. He tipped his face up towards Buck's, but couldn't see squat in the dark. He could feel Buck's breath on his cheek, and knew they had to be nearly locking lips. "Hey, hey, hey. I ain't going nowhere, you got that?"

Instead of answering, Buck head dropped so that their helmets clanked together, and he let out a long moaning breath that hitched in the middle. Bill was afraid one of them was going to start to cry, and had know idea what he'd do if they did. One would set off the other, for sure. Buck still clung to Bill's jacket, and the blanket was starting to slip off of them, but all Bill felt was the way Buck trembled against him. He had to do something to keep Buck there, to keep him from cracking up. All he needed to do was keep him going just one more day, then he could push through to the next, and the next, until they got out of this hell hole.

Bill's own hands had been jammed between their chests, but he twisted them around so that they held onto Buck's hips, a half return of the embrace. Buck tilted his face so that his mouth rested on Bill's cheek, just beside his ear, and his rough breathing filled the whole world.

If Bill could just keep him here with him.

It didn't take much, just a little tip of his head, and their lips touched.

Buck gasped, but didn't let go of Bill's jacket. Bill took that as encouragement, keeping up with what he was doing, licking along the length of Buck's bottom lip at the same time as he groped for the buttons of his fly. Buck moaned under him, but it sounded good, like he was enjoying himself.

Bill wasn't, not really, there was too much edge to it to be a turn on, and he didn't usually get with guys unless his options had run out, but he liked that Buck was melting under his touch. He hadn't let go of Bill, but his body was relaxing, and his mouth opening so that Bill could kiss him more deeply. Buck's lips were chapped raw, and his breath smelled as bad as the rest of him, but at least he was goddamn warm.

He was also getting wood just at the feel of Bill's fingers on his fly. Bill knew his hands were too cold, and Buck muffled his shout into the kiss as Bill reached through his skivvies and took hold of his shaft, but even the cold wasn't enough to make him limp. Bill took the back of his neck with his free hand, and held Buck's head still so that they could keep kissing without their helmets rattling all the time. He ran his tongue along the inside of Buck's lip at the same time as he jerked his dick, and Buck responded with little whimpering grunts. He shuddered against Bill like every touch was tearing something away from him.

_Come on, you bastard,_ Bill thought, _you can't quit me now, not when I'll do this for you._ All Buck had to do was hold on tight, and Bill would carry them both through this hell.

Bill's hands were rough, wool half-gloves not making them any better, but Buck didn't seem to care. He pushed his hips into Bill's touch and held their bodies close. Bill could hear his breaths coming faster, and the desperation in the way their mouths met, and wondered if he was pulling Buck apart in a way that he wasn't going to know how to put back together again.

Buck twisted his mouth away, his helmet clattering against the rim of Bill's, then digging into his neck as Buck buried his face against Bill's jacket. He came with a shuddering sob, like he hadn't been able to breathe in hours, maybe years. Then, he stopped moving altogether.

Bill wiped his hand on the side of the foxhole, then on Buck's fatigues before zipping Buck up again. He kept his hand on the back of Buck's neck and held him steady. Bill was usually the kind of guy who let his partner know that he was doing a good job, but he felt flummoxed as to what to say here. There wasn't a goddamn thing Buck could ask of Bill that he wouldn't do right then, but he didn't know how to tell him that. How did you tell your CO that you'd do anything, even suck his unwashed dick, if only he wouldn't go nuts and leave them all hung out to dry?

"Bill?" Buck asked, and Jesus Bill hated how tiny his voice sounded against his shoulder.

"Yeah," Bill answered. "Yeah, Buck. I gotcha." There wasn't any way to kiss Buck again without running his schnoz into Buck's helmet, but Bill rubbed his thumb up and down the back of his neck, and hoped it got the idea across. He patted Buck's hip for good measure, and maybe that was what snapped him out of it.

"I..." Buck coughed, and his hands relaxed their death grip on Bill's jacket. It was only in that moment that Bill considered that he'd maybe landed himself in some serious hot water, but for once Buck didn't chew Bill out for being a daredevil. Instead he nodded against Bill's shoulder and said, "Thank you," in a voice still too rough with raw emotion.

"Don't mention it," Bill replied, making it casual, hoping it would be that easy.

"Do you want..." Buck finished the question by sliding his hands down to Bill's waist.

"Nah, don't worry about me." Bill wasn't usually one to turn down a hand job, from anyone, but he didn't like the exchange of obligations when Buck wasn't at his best. Besides, "Doc Roe says my biroute ain't doing too good."

Buck snorted. "Your what?"

"Fuck if I know." Bill laughed, and Buck did too, the sound muffled by Bill's jacket, but more real than anything Bill had heard in days. Bill sucked in a lungful of damp winter air and the rank smell of men who hadn't bathed in weeks, and smiled.

They slept curled together like that, waking before the dawn with Buck's arms wrapped protectively around Bill's shoulders.

Bill thought that his plan to pull Buck back in was working out okay, until he started to pull away and noticed that Buck's eyes kept sliding off of him. If there was one thing he wasn't going to be able to take, it was Buck Compton pussyfooting around him because Bill'd lent a hand.

"You all right, Lieutenant?

"Bill"—Buck rose to his knees to put some space between them, but didn't get out of the foxhole yet—"You didn't hafta..."

Bill waved him off, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what a moron his CO was. "Then I wouldna. Like I said, 'don't mention it.'"

Buck studied his face, searching for some kind of a lie there, and Bill glared back belligerently. At least it was a chance to look Buck over in turn: he seemed better than he had the day before, more colour in his cheeks, eyes more focused. Bill had done good. After far too long, Buck nodded slightly. "I won't."

"Fantastic," Bill grumbled, and flipped the tarp off, hoping the light of day would end the conversation if nothing else did.

But still, Buck caught his wrist and squeezed lightly. "Glad you've got my back," he said with the kind of sincerity that Bill hadn't thought anyone other than Talbert or Winters could drum up.

"You know it," Bill answered, then pulled away.

All he had to do was hold onto Buck for a few more days. Just a little longer, just enough to get them through.


End file.
